Thank you.

THE CALLING

I promised I’d be good that day

and go to missionary school,

but the bad man still came to punish me.

My mother begged him to spare my life,

but he said, “Woman, I am Africa

and Africa takes what it wants.”

He opened a box and she looked inside,

then she screamed and fell to her knees.

Before I knew what was happening,

pain shot a fiery bullet into my arm.

When I came to, I was surprised

for my whole body told me I died

when death shook my hand.

My mother burned the stump to cauterize it.

Is healing agony? It must be, I decided,

as I lay in the strange quiet of morning.

Not even a cock crowed,

no women went to get water for cooking,

no scent of plaintains and stew

blew into our hut.

I shut my eyes and tried to ride

the waves of nausea,

flowing through my body

to someplace where suffering did not exist,

but it was useless.

Again and again, I returned to the place

where my hand, clenched in a fist

lay in a box with other hands

in various states of decay.

When my mother shook me awake,

I knew what I would do.

“Get me a knife,” I told her.

I began to practice slicing melons

with one hand,

until I could take my place

beside the man who’s like a father to me now,

as we wander around, demanding reparations

in pounds of flesh.

In the villages, they call me “The Chopper,”

and they say it with respect.

THE WHITE HOMEGIRL

My mom liked back roads, side roads,

high roads and low.

She didn’t know much, but she knew go.

Once she got started, she wouldn’t slow down

until she was out and she was out a lot.

I understood, though. She got depressed

’cause people fucked with her, people did

and she’d take a break, relieve some stress

then she’d be fine for a while,

get clean, get a job.

They couldn’t tame a girl like her, like me,

but they tried. She’d tell me

to be strong like the brothers

who could give her what she needed,

the ones who only sold

and didn’t partake of the product.

When she scored, I’d wait around for her outside.

Sometimes I’d find another kid

in the same typea situation.

Tyronne was last time.

He helped me with my homework

while mom was whoring inside.

Anyway, that was a long time ago, like twelve years.

I was ten then. I wasn’t scared

when the big shit finally happened and Mom OD’d.

I got put in a foster home.

Boy was I ever glad to move outta there

when I came “of age.”

I’d always been of age. They just didn’t know it

and now I don’t do no dope, I don’t ’ho.

I work at Jack n’ Box, Taco Bell, you know

until I get restless, then I rolls

with my homies.